Hand In Glove
by Ruby Smith
Summary: Edwardian AU, USUK. When Arthur is expected to marry for the sake of wealth and status, as is customary in rich families, he acquiesces without complaint. The one thing he is not expecting is for a bright, loud, charming, common, American servant to come crashing into his life and turn it upside down. But with his marriage imminent, which path will Arthur choose? Don't own image.
1. Butterflies

_A/N:__So the pairing in this will be USUK, however I may pair our lovely Elizabeta with a character, so any suggestions would be taken into account! Please leave a review so I know if to continue this :-) _

**1 - Butterflies**

Light rain drummed quietly against the huge, glass window that day, accompanied by a blanket of fog that smothered the estate grounds. Thick clouds hung in the sky and the grass swayed in the slight breeze. Arthur could only imagine how the cool, crisp air would feel against his skin as he gazed out of the window, his battered book drooping to rest on his drawn knees. His stomach was a bundle of nerves as he sighed, picking his book up and reading over the same line he had been unintentionally reading for the past hour. Usually, sitting in said huge, glass window would set his mind at ease, however that day a certain family would be meeting him.

Arthur sighed, shutting his book and resting his head in the palm of his hand. Unanswered questions whirled in his head like a snowstorm: What would they be like? Would they love him, hate him? How long would they stay? Questions that, much to his irritation, his father had shrugged off or given painfully vague answers to.

The rain picked up speed outside as Arthur glanced apprehensively out of the window again, the now louder pitter-patter echoing around the large room, bouncing on every step of the carved staircase. The mansion was always empty and dark when the weather turned bad; the wooden floorboards creaking in protest beneath every footstep; the staircase looming like a cat over a rat; the cobwebs clinging to the chandelier; the dim light casting shadows around the haunting mansion. By now, Arthur was used to it. Arthur was used to the grey and lifeless days he spent alone when the rain came. Simply speaking, Arthur was bored, unable to concentrate on the text printed on the pages of his book and finding little inspiration from the house's gardens. And naturally, he was forbidden to venture out into the rain on such an _important _day.

"Arthur!" His father's booming voice rang out from upstairs, tearing Arthur out of his thoughts. Arthur listened for the footsteps above and then swung his legs down from the windowsill, scrambling to the bookcase across the room and slotting his book back before running to the mirror at the foot of the stairs. His father appeared at the top of the staircase, arms folded. Without knowing prior, it would be almost impossible to realise that Arthur and his father were even related. His father had a stern face and a stern way of thinking, and the hard lines engraved on his forehead, mainly from excessive frowning as opposed to age, reinforced this quality. The only characteristic they shared were their eyes, and of late his father's had seemed much duller and more miserable. Four years had passed since Mrs Kirkland had died and Arthur didn't imagine that his father would ever even be a shadow of the man he used to be.

"Arthur, the Hédervárys will be here soon. Are you still not ready?" He asked accusingly, and Arthur managed to force a weak smile.

"Ah, I'm sorry. I can't seem to find my comb," he lied, fumbling around on the dust-coated surface. He wondered how the dust had been able to accumulate so, given the amount of domestic servants his father had employed. His father looked sceptically at the blonde and narrowed his eyes.

"Find it quickly. Our guests will be here shortly," he said, before disappearing as quickly as he came, just like a ghost. It wouldn't surprise him; the house was crawling with footsteps in the darkest of nights and strange shadows flickering across walls like droplets of spilt ink.

Arthur waited a few moments before sighing and looking in the mirror, studying his reflection disdainfully. His skin seemed so much paler and his hair so much duller than when he was younger, his waistcoat and shirt not seeming as tailored to his body. He gripped the edges of the surface beneath the mirror, casting his emerald eyes downwards. According to his father, this arranged marriage between him and a girl he was yet to meet was a wonderful opportunity to expand his family's riches, as though they weren't wealthy enough already. But it was expected. Ever since he was young he'd not anticipated much from his life. He would get married to a woman whom he had never met in his life, inherit the family's money and then have children who would then repeat the cycle. It was expected of him, nothing more and nothing less. He supposed that was why he was so fond of books – it was nice to get lost in a world of promises and joy and colour rather than pressure and expectations and darkness.

A loud honk of a car horn pulled him out of his thoughts and he glanced back into the mirror, running his fingers through his uncombed hair to try and tame the chaotic mess. His father shouted some indistinguishable words from upstairs and Arthur hurried over to the window, seeing a black, shiny car approaching the estate's gates through the swirling fog. Swallowing hard, he stood up straight and took a deep breath in to compose himself. He was horribly nervous, however as he had been told time and time again, he was to smother any glimpse of unease that threatened to show.

His father rushed down the stairs, "Arthur, get an umbrella and come and meet her. And get me a coat." Arthur complied, making his way through the dining room and a living room, down a hallway, past the main entrance and to the cloakroom on the right. He thoughtlessly picked up the first umbrella that caught his eye and selected two long, finely-crafted coats, trying his hardest to ignore the butterflies fluttering in his stomach.

Retrieving the coat to his father, he swallowed again. The loud creak of servants opening the metal gates announced their guest's arrival and his father pulled open the front door. A breeze ran its cool fingers through Arthur's blonde hair and fine droplets of rain were already settling comfortably on his skin. The car parked to the side of the road, fairly close to the door. However, he was still going to have to venture out to collect his soon-to-be bride, much to Arthur's dismay.

Out of the wet, shining car emerged a rather severe-looking man with a pencil-thin moustache and an extravagantly-dressed woman, both of whom scrunched up their noses disdainfully at the rain. Then followed a young, pale girl with light brown locks wearing an expensive, mint coloured dress. White gloves and stockings adorned her limbs. She had a kind face. Arthur squinted slightly to see the fourth person – a young man who was holding the door. He didn't seem to fit in very well with the aristocratic family: black, slightly baggy trousers with braces over his shoulders, a dirty white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, tattered and well-worn boots into which the trousers were tucked. He assumed that the lad was a servant to the family. And he was getting soaking wet. As were the rest of the family.

Immediately snapping back to reality, he hurried outside into the harsh weather and put his umbrella up. He hardly even noticed his father following him and putting on his most welcoming smile, naturally fake.

"Good afternoon, welcome to Kirkland Manor," his father said in the most cheerful tone he could muster.

"Good afternoon. This must be Arthur," the finely dressed man's words were laced in an American accent as he spoke and his eyes crinkled in a smile, "Good afternoon to you. This is our daughter Elizabeta, whom you will be wedded to, I believe?" He gestured to the girl and she smiled.

"Yes, sir. I'm honoured to have such a beautiful bride. I intend to take good care of her," Arthur recited the words his father had told him to say and much to his relief, they seemed to receive a positive response.

His father clapped him on the back and Arthur struggled not to cringe, "He's a good boy, see? Greet Elizabeta, Arthur."

Arthur obeyed, reaching out half-heartedly, taking hold of her smooth hand and planting a quick kiss on it, "Pleasure to meet you." She smiled again. Although feeling uncomfortable at how blatantly scripted the whole conversation was he tried his hardest to wear the most charming smile he could. It was going to be a long night.

* * *

The forced conversation continued for what seemed to Arthur like hours as they made their way into the house, the family were shown around the vast mansion and they began to wait for dinner. All the time their servant was absent. They sat at the long table of the dining room covered by an intricately laced cloth. Above it stood delicate glasses filled with red wine and gleaming cutlery, illuminated by candles on the table and chandelier hanging elegantly over their heads.

Arthur was surprised at how well Elizabeta's parents had taken to his father as they laughed at some joke or anecdote he had only half listened to. Perhaps it was the wine. Although, he had learnt that his future wife had Hungarian roots, hence the unusual surname. He began doubting the authenticity of Mr and Mrs Héderváry's American accents as they occasionally slipped into a more European accent.

The door leading from the dining room into the kitchen opened and a couple of maids brought plates of food out, placing them in front of his father and the other family.

"Took you enough time," muttered Mrs Héderváry and Arthur refrained from rolling his eyes. He did, however, notice that his meal had not been brought out. As did his father.

"Where is Arthur's?" He demanded of one of the maids as she retreated back into the kitchen. She instantly looked a mixture of guilty and frightened.

"Very sorry, sir. We had a slight problem with the oven. It will be out shortly," she squeaked apologetically, bowing her head.

"That is no excuse…"

"It's fine," Arthur quickly interjected, earning a glare from his father. She bowed and scurried away into the kitchen again. The conversation soon began again and Arthur soon lost interest again. He found his eyes wandering over to one of the dining room windows, where he noticed a number of things. Firstly, he noted that wind was still whistling through the trees and the rain was still falling from the sky like liquid daggers. Secondly, he realised that the boy from before was out in said rain, leant over the car. Arthur tilted his head to the side and squinted. Finally, he noticed that said boy was absolutely dripping wet and was presumably horribly cold.

Coughing politely to interrupt the conversation, he stood up and smiled, "Please excuse me, I need to use the toilet."

"But your dinner will be ready soon…" His father protested, glowering. Elizabeta's mother and father seemed too tipsy to care. So much for sophistication.

"It doesn't matter, I seem to have lost my appetite anyway," he murmured before turning around briskly to avoid meeting his father's scowl. Closing the door with a quiet click and shaking his head at the drunken laughter that erupted on the other side, he padded quietly through the house until he reached the front door. Quickly, he turned the golden doorknob and swung open the door, squinting hard into the rain. Arthur stepped out as soon as he had located the boy and hurried towards him.

Still bitter and wet, the evening had darkened considerably and Arthur could only just make out the servant's figure. He realised that he never even got a proper look at the boy before, given the distance between them. The wind weaved through the trees around and carried an influx of crumbling leaves that scrambled away from each other. It hissed like oil in a pan.

"Hello?" He called, his voice sounding distant in the downpour. Seemingly startled, the boy whipped around, simultaneously banging his head on the uplifted car bonnet and letting out a sharp yelp. Arthur raised an eyebrow; he was much taller than he had previously thought now that he had a closer view, possibly more so than him.

"What are you doing out here in the rain?" Arthur asked as he reached the boy, who was now clutching his head and groaning softly.

"What did you say?" The boy replied in an American accent, "Sir?" When he spoke, Arthur found that he much preferred it to when the Héderváry family spoke; their accents sounded so much more… egotistical. So much more superior. So much more arrogant.

"I said, what are you doing out here in the rain?" Arthur repeated, raising his voice somewhat to battle the sounds of rain.

"Oh! I'm just checkin' the car. It's a new one you see," the servant said with a smile in his voice.

"Well," Arthur started, and then stopped. He couldn't quite recall what had possessed him to come outside in the first place – he was shivering, "you, er, best come inside soon or you'll catch your death." The American was silent for a few seconds.

"What do you mean 'my death'?" He asked in a worried voice.

Before Arthur could open his mouth to retort sardonically, he heard the sound of his father's bellowing voice, albeit muffled by the rain. Settling for simply nodding his head to the boy and hoping he could see in the dim lighting, he turned around and made his way back inside, feeling faintly conscious of the boy's eyes burning into the back of his head.


	2. Sunlight

_A/N:__woah, thank you all so much for the reviews and stuff! Makes me rather happy :-) Also, I'm sorry for the slow update but my mock exams are all out of the way now so I'll be able to update quicker. Again, please leave me a review or __criticism! _

**2 – Sunlight**

Arthur awoke early the following morning, before the servants would come to wake him up and before any of the new inhabitants of the house would have arisen. The floating remains of whatever dream he had been having dissipated as he stared at the white ceiling. Eventually, he collected his thoughts and rubbed his formidable eyebrows as he remembered last night's events. He sighed, pulled back his covers and climbed out of bed, drawing the curtains that covered his bedroom window. Arthur had always slept in this room. It was on the top floor of the mansion and had a large window, although the bedroom itself was small and comfortable. His father had tried on multiple occasions to move him to a larger and more exquisite room, presumably to encourage him to lead a more aristocratic life, however Arthur had relented. Every single item in the room had its own specific home and held sentimental value that he daren't tamper with, regardless of how silly or unimportant they were to anyone else.

Groggily, Arthur rubbed his eyes and regarded the view from his window. The morning sky was alight with colours; crimson, peach, lavender and vermillion. White clouds were dappled across the coloured canvas and the towering trees in the gardens were but black silhouettes against the brightness. The sun was barely peeking over the trees and its rays brushed across the landscape like gentle fingertips, leaving shimmering residue behind them on the frost that had accumulated overnight. Even the Hédervárys' shiny, black car didn't make him feel as despondent as it had the day before, regardless of the feeling of dread it still filled him with; it seemed to light up in the rosy sunbeams.

Arthur pressed his forehead against the cool glass and sighed at the scene, letting his eyes flutter shut. He remembered long walks with his mother when he was a child and how she loved the morning sky. _"Red sky at night, shepherd's delight. Red sky at morning, shepherd's warning" _she would say when the sky was like this, but he could always see the tender admiration her eyes held as she watched the sky. Arthur didn't mind if the weather did end up turning bad later on in the day because it was a beautiful sight nevertheless. He _knew _she felt the same. He could remember the amazement he felt when he watched the embers of dawn dance across her smooth, milky skin and glow in her sandy hair as she walked. She was stunning, stunning and wise – she spoke like she'd lived for a thousand years, but looked young and delicate like a flower.

But he could always remember her pasty skin and how her sunken eyes, clouded with agony, would watch out the window from her bed. It was always difficult to see beneath the tiredness and pain in her eyes and determine what she was feeling, but Arthur always thought he saw the distinct sentiment of loneliness and longing, and he supposed it had rubbed off on him. The colours were no longer bright on her skin, but seemed blurred and dull from the distance of the window. She wasn't just sick. She was trapped. She was so sick and trapped that she couldn't even leave her bed to watch the sky from the gardens or take the long walks with Arthur anymore.

Blinking, Arthur took a sharp breath and turned away from the window. He couldn't allow himself to become absorbed in his more painful memories whilst the Hédervárys were staying with him. He had to distract himself.

He decided to venture downstairs and get himself a drink as he realised how dry his throat was. Grabbing his pocket watch from his bedside table, he flipped it open. It read 4.43 am, meaning there would assumedly be no one awake to bother him and he would be able to indulge in some time to himself for a short while. The pocket watch was cold in his hand as he pushed it into his mint-green pyjama pocket. He carried it everywhere with him as he was prone to getting lost in his own thoughts and losing track of time.

He made his way out of the bedroom, through the halls quietly and washed himself in the bathroom, not forgetting to brush through his wild locks in a failed attempt to tame them. He supposed it didn't really matter; he would come back later on to dress himself anyway. After descending one of multiple staircases in the mansion, he pulled out his watch again, tracing his fingers across the elaborate, floral design on the front.

Abruptly, he turned a corner in the hall and crashed straight into someone.

He fell backwards and landed hard onto the floor, letting out a less than manly yelp as a sharp pain exploded in his back. A loud _thud _echoed through the hallway as a second body fell onto the floor. A huge mass of soft whiteness settled on top of him as he lay on the floor. There was silence for a moment.

"Bloody hell fire…" Arthur groaned, pulling the white thing, which he identified as washed linen, away from his face and scowling, "Watch where you're fucking going! You nearly…" Arthur trailed off as he recognised the servant boy from yesterday sitting up and watching him with wide, sea-blue eyes and not a regular servant that should know better. There was a small trickle of blood running down from his forehead and the freshly washed linen and a wooden basket was scattered around him from the fall.

"Ah, I'm really sorry," he spoke, scrambling to his feet and extending his hand out for Arthur, "sir. I wasn't watchin' where I was going and I shouldn't have been rushin', forgive-"

"You're bleeding." Arthur interrupted; ignoring the servant's outstretched hand and getting back on his feet independently, albeit wobbling slightly from the dull ache in his back.

"Huh?" the blue-eyed boy frowned slightly, lifting his fingertips to his temple and dabbing at the warm blood, "Woah. You're right. Must've hit my head," He let out a loud laugh, before remembering himself and adding a, "sir". Arthur rolled his eyes in exasperation.

"Come on, let's get you cleaned up," Arthur mumbled, eliciting a bemused expression from the servant.

"Oh, no thank you sir, I'm fine sir, honest,"

"You have a head wound, for Christ's sake! You'll be bleeding all over the place. Come with me, I was going to have a quiet drink anyway but I suppose that's not going to happen with you thudding around the house," Arthur retorted, glancing at the taller boy as he looked about sheepishly, "And drop the 'sir' for now, Arthur is fine."

"But the linen's still on the floor."

"For fuck's sake," Arthur muttered under his breath, bending down and grabbing the cloths with more aggression than necessary and throwing them back into the basket. He shoved the now full basket into the American's chest and huffed slightly, turning around and marching to the family kitchen. The family kitchen wasn't like the one that the servants worked in, that was huge. The family kitchen was where Arthur tended to make smaller things like tea and light foods, and when he needed to get away from things might have something stronger to drink. It was a nice place for him to relax.

"Okay, thank you _Arthur…_" Maybe it was his imagination, but Arthur could have sworn that the servant enjoyed his name a little too much. Silence settled heavily between the pair as they paced and Arthur took a moment to glance sidelong at the boy, who had caught up with him. He was quite a bit taller than he had originally thought (which was taller than him, somewhat to Arthur's irritation) and was wearing something similar to yesterday with rolled up sleeves and what not, but close up Arthur realised that he was much more muscular than he had thought. He had golden brown hair with one lock that stood up defiantly from the rest, and tan skin. He could make out a few rather severe-looking scars on skin of his arms (he decided not to pursue the subject) and his fingers were calloused from the back-breaking work of a servant. Despite all this, it was his eyes that were exceptionally astonishing. They were such a bright, captivating blue that Arthur felt himself being drawn in. Realising what he was thinking, Arthur shook his head fervently. Maybe his perpetual isolation was getting to him…

"I didn't catch your name," Arthur suddenly stated, shocking himself. The American slowed down, looking at the Briton incredulously before smiling broadly and continuing at the pace they were originally at.

"Huh, you're cute _and _nice," he said so quietly that Arthur barely heard him.

"Excuse me?" Arthur demanded, feeling heat rising to his cheeks. Did he hear him correctly?

"Alfred. My name's Alfred F Jones," he declared. Apparently not. Arthur searched for something else to say, something witty or intelligent, but he came up with nothing, so he simply nodded and continued at the original pace. They soon arrived at the kitchen. It was pretty like the rest of the mansion, and even held the same dusty quality. Light beamed in through a small, sooty window and dust mingled and flowed in the air within it. Wooden cupboards with patterns of roses engraved into the doors lined one of the walls, just above a long counter. There was a wooden table with three empty chairs in the middle of the room and long candles in black holders sat on it, casting even longer shadows. The room had a gas lamp, irrespective of the candles. It was a quaint room.

"Sit down, I'll find something to clean you up," Arthur said shortly, opening a cupboard and rummaging through the items inside. Some more candles, a pair of old reading glasses, several books, a quill pen… alcohol and bandages! There was a clean rag in there too… Arthur collected the articles and closed the cupboard with a _click. _

"Alright, I've got the… Alfred I told you to sit down!" He exclaimed, feeling his temper gradually wearing down. The American was stood but the counter, holding a tea bag reluctantly and puzzling over a tea pot. He was now balancing the basket on his hip.

Alfred sulked, "I was gonna make you some tea… the English like that, right?"

"Do you even know how to make tea?"

"I could try."

"Sit down," Arthur said sternly, pulling out a chair. Alfred shrugged and fell back heavily into the chair, dropping the basket on the stone floor beside him, while Arthur placed the alcohol, rag and bandages onto the table and sat down in a much more gentlemanly manner. Alfred began to stare out of the little, murky window, so Arthur busied himself with dampening the rag with the alcohol and occasionally looking up to make sure the taller was behaving. And Christ, was Alfred a big lad!

"This may sting a little," he said, moving the rag towards Alfred's face. He hadn't realised, however, that a pair of spectacles sat on the servant's face. Arthur pulled his chair closer with a hollow scraping noise and reached up to cautiously pry them off without touching and worsening the wound. Alfred seemed to stiffen slightly at the contact and turned his head to scan Arthur as he placed the glasses onto the table. His sea-like eyes washed over Arthur's grass-like eyes in a peculiar moment in which even the circulating dust in the air was suspended.

A moment passed.

Another.

Another.

Arthur pressed the rag into the wound and Alfred hissed and winced at the pain, squeezing his eyes shut. Arthur let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding and felt a ghost of a smile pull on his lips.

"Don't be such a bloody child," Arthur scolded, dabbing softly at the cut. Alfred opened his eyes again.

"It ain't my fault…" Arthur shifted his eyes and looked at him sceptically, then settled them back onto the cut. Alfred continued, "Thank you for all this."

Arthur finished cleaning the wound, "You're welcome… Alfred, this is for your own sake: I never helped you, you never got hurt. The bleeding has stopped; it wasn't that big of a wound so I won't bandage it and draw attention. Don't forget your place here. You cannot call me by my name in front of anyone, especially not my father." Arthur couldn't hide the disdain that broke through his demeanour when he called the man his _father_ however he doubted that the servant caught on. He probably wasn't even educated, being a servant.

For a second, he thought he saw a flash of hurt in those azure eyes, "Yeah, sir." Arthur stood up and hastily placed all of the medical items back before pulling out his pocket watch. 5.07 am. Arthur skimmed over Alfred but refrained from making eye contact. He felt a familiar aching in his chest when the lighting of the room brightened and he saw fiery sunlight dance across the American's tan skin. Torn on whether to stay and speak with the only real source of conversation he'd had in months or to leave this confusing servant, he watched as the pale, thick scars on his visible arms were illuminated by the coral light of the sunrise for a few seconds. No. This wasn't a distraction anymore. He had to leave.

Nodding tersely as a goodbye, he swiftly spun and strode away, but felt bright eyes burning into the back of his head for the second time in two days.


End file.
